The Man of Feeling eBook

She saw his tears; her fortitude began to fail at
the sight, when the voice of some stranger on the
stairs awakened her attention. She listened for
a moment, then starting up, exclaimed, “Merciful
God! my father’s voice!”

She had scarce uttered the word, when the door burst
open, and a man entered in the garb of an officer.
When he discovered his daughter and Harley, he started
back a few paces; his look assumed a furious wildness!
he laid his hand on his sword. The two objects
of his wrath did not utter a syllable.

“Villain,” he cried, “thou seest
a father who had once a daughter’s honour to
preserve; blasted as it now is, behold him ready to
avenge its loss!”

Harley had by this time some power of utterance.
“Sir,” said he, “if you will be
a moment calm—­”

“Sir,” said Harley, “let me tell
you”—­the blood ran quicker to his
cheek, his pulse beat one, no more, and regained the
temperament of humanity—­“you are
deceived, sir,” said he, “you are much
deceived; but I forgive suspicions which your misfortunes
have justified: I would not wrong you, upon
my soul I would not, for the dearest gratification
of a thousand worlds; my heart bleeds for you!”

His daughter was now prostrate at his feet.

“Strike,” said she, “strike here
a wretch, whose misery cannot end but with that death
she deserves.”

Her hair had fallen on her shoulders! her look had
the horrid calmness of out-breathed despair!
Her father would have spoken; his lip quivered, his
cheek grew pale, his eyes lost the lightning of their
fury! there was a reproach in them, but with a mingling
of pity. He turned them up to heaven, then on
his daughter. He laid his left hand on his heart,
the sword dropped from his right, he burst into tears.

CHAPTER XXIX—­THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER

Harley kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate
daughter.

“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to entreat
your pardon for one whose offences have been already
so signally punished. I know, I feel, that those
tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more
dreadful to her than all the punishments your sword
could have inflicted: accept the contrition
of a child whom heaven has restored to you.”

“Is she not lost,” answered he, “irrecoverably
lost? Damnation! a common prostitute to the
meanest ruffian!”

“Calmly, my dear sir,” said Harley, “did
you know by what complicated misfortunes she had fallen
to that miserable state in which you now behold her,
I should have no need of words to excite your compassion.
Think, sir, of what once she was. Would you
abandon her to the insults of an unfeeling world, deny
her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the little
comfort that still remains for your afflictions and
her own!”